


it's been a long, long time.

by beatrixfranklin



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27049372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatrixfranklin/pseuds/beatrixfranklin
Summary: as delia comes to the end of her life, ghosts of the girls they once were paint a tale of love and fear.
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW THROUGHOUT  
> SUICIDE PLANS, HEAVY MENTION OF MEDICATION. 
> 
> based on the play lovesong by abi morgan.
> 
> flashbacks are italicised, song lyrics are in bold and present day is regular text. 
> 
> please please please heed the trigger warnings, this fic grapples with some pretty heavy themes, especially towards the end.

_ Two figures skulk out of the coffee bar, giggles ringing around glistening streets. The rain still patters steadily, coating both their coats in a fine glossy mist. In a dull lamplit alley, Patsy takes both of Delia’s hands, warming them in her own, staring down into curious blue eyes. They giggle again, mischief and secrecy flowing in their veins. The darkness gives them security, it is their only ally. They walk hand in hand, breaking apart as the lamps become more abundant.  _

“Are you coming to bed, Pats?” comes the call from the bedroom.

“Just a moment,” replies Patsy, wrapping a string of dental floss around two fingers, taking careful detail as she always has done. She smiles in the mirror, more of a grimace, inspecting each shining white tooth. Humming in satisfaction, she heads back into the room. One solitary lamp is all that illuminates the room, her eyes turning to the woman in the bed beside her. 

Patsy slides under the duvet, fluffing her pillows beneath her. Delia pulls on the string of the lamp, the room plunging into darkness, only the streetlight outside casting a subtle orange glow through shut blinds. She turns, settling into the pillows, wincing as she does so.

Patsy’s heart lurches with each wince, tear, and grimace. Delia’s been ill forty-eight years, Patsy calculates one day. It’s an awfully long time, most of her life riddled with migraines and sudden pains and seizures. It’s no wonder she plans what she plans.

Delia’s arm fumbles in the dark, wrapping around Patsy’s waist, the taller woman pulling her in closer as her breathing slows and settles. Her pills always make her drop off with such haste.

_ Patsy flicks the end of her cigarette into the gutter, inspecting her bare nails. The clock tower shows three on the dot and Patsy looks around again, expecting Delia any moment. The small Welshwoman emerges at five minutes past, give or take, her neatly lacquered bun giving way to flyaways after a clearly hectic day. Patsy smiles at the sight of her, taking her scarf from around her neck as she did most days, draping it around the shoulders of the girl she falls into step with. _

_ “Coffee on me again?” she asks, her husky tone music to Delia’s ears. Delia nods, looking up with excited eyes like a child on Christmas Eve. _

_ “Good,” says Patsy, “I’ve got some news for you.”  _

Patsy flicks through the morning paper, having already walked their speckled white pup, Sappho, to the quiet paper shop at the top of the road as was custom each morning. The pup in question lay at her feet, wrapped around her ankles. She bounds over to Delia as she emerges into the kitchen. She seems frustrated, maybe with her, maybe just in general.

“I have an appointment this morning,” Delia says, heading to the coffee pot, pouring herself a fresh cup, 

“Shall I drive you?” asks Patsy, chewing on buttered toast.

“I’ll get the bus,” shrugs Delia, holding her mug between both hands. Patsy nods. Watches Delia rub her temple in pain.

“Take some paracetamol,” Patsy says, rising, “here, I’ll grab them.” 

Delia sighs, eyes squeeze shut tight for a brief moment.

“You know they don’t help, cariad,” 

_ “So, what’s the big occasion? You don’t normally fork out for a large,” asks Delia, smiling at the redhead seated in front of her. Patsy taps the ash of her cigarette, her signature lopsided grin forming on her lips. _

_ “There’s a spot opened up at the London,” she begins, barely containing her excitement, “for midwifery.” _

_ Delia runs her finger around the rim of her steaming coffee cup. _

_ “Oh, Pats, that puts you back in training,” she says, stating what is very much obvious, “do you have the money to retrain?”  _

_ Patsy nods, somewhat defeatedly. _

_ “My father still insists on his hefty loans from Hong Kong, although I worry they’re limited by now,” she smiles, placing her hand over Delia’s, “I want to enjoy what I do again, Deels.”  _

Patsy places the three shopping bags atop the counter, taking a minute to stretch and flex arthritic fingers. Spotlessly clean nails, deep crevices along her knuckles, small cracks from bleach and scrubbing. Patsy sighs, beginning to stock away the groceries. Tins, jars, boxes, all one after another into cupboards and drawers. The cupboard above the sink is pulled open in haste, as Patsy places three fresh boxes of paracetamol within, replenishing the stock that Delia relies on like she does oxygen to stall incoming migraines. She’s brief with her actions, choosing not to think about the accumulating stash of strong prescriptions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW THROUGHOUT  
> suicidal thoughts, medication mention, destructive coping mechanisms

_ “I’m proud of you, you know,” says Delia, placing her head on Patsy’s shoulder from behind, stretching on tiptoes to match the redhead's height. Patsy tenses, despite their complete safety in Patsy’s room, though she giggles as Delia’s head appears over her shoulder in the mirror. Arms wrap around Patsy’s waist from behind, holding her close as she buttons her uniform.  _

_ Patsy places her own hands over Delia’s, which find themselves resting at her navel. Their fingers tangle together, a soft moment in the hectic morning air. _

_ “It’s not often we get time like this,” Patsy says, soft, sad.  _

_ “Even less so with all your studying, now,” Delia says, jokingly in tone although there is truth lurking beneath. She keeps her chin rested on Patsy’s shoulder, taking in the soft perfume at the crook of her neck. _

_ “It’ll be worth it, my love,” replies Patsy, slipping an arm around Delia’s waist as she brings her forwards to press into her chest.  _

Delia returns, rousing Sappho from her mid-afternoon nap. She kicks off her shoes at the door, making her way through to the kitchen. Patsy aims to ignore the brown paper bag in Delia’s hand as she crosses to the forbidden cupboard above the sink. Tries to avert her eyes as the collection of medicine grows larger. Delia rocks back onto her heels from tiptoes, closing the cupboard as she turns, leaning on the counter.

“You look shattered, my love,” says Patsy, rising from her seat, holding the tops of Delia’s arms. Delia looks into her eyes, taking hold of Patsy’s arms, stifling a yawn.

“I’m lucky if I get a full night in,” she says, sighing, “if I take the blue and the red together I’m fine, but if I take the black as well I’m up at the mad hours,” 

“Take more blue then,” Patsy says, brushing a strand of Delia’s salt and pepper coloured hair behind her ear, a soft, yet subtle gesture.

“Take more blue and I don’t wake up,” says Delia, sharp words a contrast from the almost hoarse whisper of her voice. Whether she meant it to be harsh or not is another matter. The implications are unspoken yet present.

Patsy swallows the growing lump in her throat, the air suddenly cold and tense. 

_ “They need me to begin as soon as possible, Deels,” Patsy says, cigarette smoke trailing upwards, reflecting in the pale moonlight. Delia nods, a hand resting on Patsy’s thigh. _

_ “That’s all the men of Poplar sighing in relief,” Delia says, a tiny smile forming on her lips, “no more facing the wrath of Nurse Mount,”  _

_ There is a pause. Delia squeezes Patsy’s knee gently. _

_ “It’ll be alright, Pats,” she says, attempting to reassure the redhead, “it’s not like you’re waltzing off to China on me. You’re still around the corner,”  _

_ Patsy nods, inhaling the rest of her cigarette.  _

_ Starting at Nonnatus is a distraction from the swirling turmoil that seems to fill Patsy’s chest 24/7 at present. She fits in off the bat, realising quickly enough that her obsessive cleaning is more than welcomed in her new surroundings. _

Bleach.

That is all that fills Delia’s nose as she rouses from her sleep, almost like clockwork.

3:16, the clock announces. 

The only light of the bedroom is the subtle artificial glow of the streetlamp outside the window.

That and the faint light from outside the door.

She slides her feet into her slippers, ignoring the thudding in her head, the sharp pain behind both eyes that she really ought to be accustomed to by now. 

The light leads her to the kitchen.

Patsy kneels on the cold tile, typical old fashioned scrubbing brush held between pink hands. Delia approaches silently, carefully. The older woman continues to work on the floor, her state trancelike. Delia places a gentle hand on Patsy’s wrist.

“Enough, cariad,” she whispers, placing her other hand on Patsy’s back. Warily, she moves to take the scrubbing brush from Patsy’s hands, speckles of red visible on the wooden handle it’s set into.

“That’s it,” 

Patsy remains kneeling, motionless, staring blankly ahead. Delia draws her into her chest slowly as she falls, sitting properly on the floor, resting her head against Delia.

“Can I see?” she asks, moving to take Patsy’s hands. She holds them as though they are made of glass, observing the cracked skin that is beginning to bleed as it dries, if it wasn’t already bleeding before. She rises momentarily, Patsy still barely moving, retrieving the Germolene from the drawer. 

“Sorry,”

It is barely audible, yet it is heard, and it shatters Delia’s heart. She kneels back beside Patsy, armed with Germolene and cotton wool. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says, biting her lip as she concentrates on cleaning the cracking wounds of Patsy’s pale skin. 

_ “There’s something you’re not telling me,” her tone is adamant as she looks to the woman beside her. Their usual solace- a park bench after dark. Patsy shrugs, _

_ “It’s nothing,” she says, quietly. Delia sighs, breath fogging in the moonlight. She wordlessly takes Patsy’s hand in her own, running her hand over blisters and cracks. _

_ “I know that isn’t the truth, sweetheart,” she says, linking her fingers with Patsy’s, gently, wrapping an arm around the taller woman, drawing her close. Patsy is noticeably tense. _

_ “They painted queer on his door,” is the reply, quiet and defeated. Delia nods, holding Patsy tighter. _

_ “We’ll be alright,” she says, soft, her head tilted against Patsy’s.  _

_ “What if we aren’t?” asks Patsy, in a matter of fact way, her hand moving to rest on Delia’s knee. _

_ “That isn’t something we can control,” is the reply.  _

Patsy wakes with a start, wrapped tightly in Delia’s arms. She untangles herself, sitting up, rubbing her eyes, wincing as the fresh pink skin of her scrubbed hands stings with contact. Delia sits up beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

“Do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?” asks Delia, running short nails around Patsy’s shoulder blade through the flannel of her pyjama shirt. Patsy shakes her head adamantly.

“Are you sure?” comes the question. Patsy shrugs.

“You have enough on your plate, don’t you?” she says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to sit with her feet planted firmly on the floor.

“That’s entirely besides the point,” replies the brunette, not moving from her side of the bed, “you haven’t had an episode like that in forever, and you only ever do it when you’re stressed,” 

“Well, is it any  _ fucking  _ wonder?” snaps Patsy, barely glancing over her shoulder. Delia inhales, unsure what to reply. 

“Do you want coffee?” asks the redhead, standing up as she does so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW THROUGHOUT  
> slight blood mention? thats all for this chapter

_ Delia doesn’t know. She doesn’t remember. The bile rises in Patsy’s throat as she enters the apartment. Her mind is working in overdrive, her chest tightening as she begins to panic in the safety of the closed door. Sleeves pushed above her elbows, she begins to fill the rusty old bucket at the sink, steam billowing from within as she does. The scent of bleach is a comfort almost, her heart racing a little less as the apartment fills with the overpowering stench of it.  _

_ All that fills her mind is Delia. The promise they both made that they would be alright, despite the surroundings and the mindsets they grappled with. It’s a cruel twist of fate, Patsy thinks, that it is inevitably out of both of their grasps. That it is her bike that stands against the wall, frame twisted and tortured. Part of her wishes it was her altogether.  _

As Delia trails downstairs, Patsy stands at the back door, cigarette in hand. Delia wishes she’d cut back, if not quit, although this is a brainwave that remains silent. For both of their sakes. She watches puff after puff silently, before Sappho leaps over, announcing her presence. 

“Never saw starlings like that in London,” she says, eyes fixated on the trees standing in the yard. She stubs the cigarette into the ashtray in her other hand, placing the whole lot back on the side. She turns on her heel.

“Deels?” 

Delia stands in the doorway still, a pale hand gripping at the chair. Patsy approaches cautiously as Delia’s eyes remain unfocused, unblinking.

She falls.

Patsy takes her in both arms as her small frame goes limp, guiding her gently to the floor. She strokes her hair gently, waiting what seems an age for any sign of her coming round.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she mutters softly.

_ It happens a few weeks into Delia’s stay at Nonnatus. The London gave up on easing her in, in the end, as she works long shifts, emerging from the sterile white long after the sun disappears. She arrives home as the rest of Nonnatus’ inhabitants settle in front of the TV and Patsy smiles up as she comes through the sitting-room door. _

_ "God, Deels," she says, observing the deep purple rings beneath the brunette's eyes, paired with the escaping strands from her usual slicked bun, “tough day at the office?” Delia would roll her eyes if she had any energy left. Instead, she smiles weakly, flopping onto the sofa beside Patsy, eyes already heavy.  _

_ The switch in programme stirs everyone into movement, the nuns getting ready to leave for Compline. Delia heads to the kitchen, in search of a glass of water as her head throbs. _

_ It is the glass hitting the floor in an impressive smash that first alerts Patsy. She immediately runs to Delia’s side, joined by an almost equally concerned Trixie.  _

_ The adrenaline running throughout Patsy’s veins is enough to drown out the stinging shards of broken glass that pierce her nylons. _

Delia’s body spasms, her eyes squeezing shut before fluttering open. She takes Patsy’s free hand, locking it with her own as she regains her senses. Wincing at the light from the window, she nestles into Patsy’s cardigan, anchoring herself.

“How long?” Her voice is raspy, weak.

“Almost two minutes,” answers Patsy, still running slender fingers through Delia’s salt and pepper waves. Delia nods, taking a sharp intake of breath as she tries to sit up. Patsy runs a careful hand up and down Delia’s back, keeping her grounded. 

“I still remember the first time,” says Patsy after a few moments have passed. Delia sighs.

“You do?” 

“Yes. Gave me quite a fright,” she says, planting a kiss on top of Delia’s head. 

“You’re used to it now, though,” says Delia, her voice still quiet, tone sad.

“You know I wish I wasn’t.” 

_ Delia’s eyes blink open wearily, a worried Patsy being the first thing that comes into her view. She reaches out, fingertips brushing the first thing they can reach, which just so happens to be her knee. Now sticky as the blood thickens and dries, Patsy winces only slightly at the contact. _

_ “Oh, Pats,” she says, weakly. Patsy shakes her head, taking the wandering hand in her own. Trixie appears behind the pair, glass of water in hand. _

_ “We need to get you sat up,” she says, matter of factly, never being able to leave Nurse Mount at the door. The redhead sweeps glistening shards away from Delia as the smaller woman steadies herself against Patsy’s side. Taking the glass from Trixie, she helps Delia take small sips. A gentle hand brushing slowly up and down the brunette's back goes unmentioned, given the circumstances. Delia’s eyes fall to the scarlet spread on the tile. Patsy senses the brief concern, _

_ “All mine, no worry of yours,” she says, a slight smile that morphs more into a grimace as adrenaline ceases to block her pain.  _

_ “It has to be somebody’s worry,” says Delia, sighing deeply, “why not mine?”  _

Patsy pats her face with the towel, blinking away stray droplets that linger on her eyelashes. She looks up, staring into the mirror. As she focuses, her form fades. The crevices lining her forehead and cheeks, signs of a life well-lived, disintegrate. The woman staring back shares her fiery hair, still dyed as often as it was back then. Her cheekbones, carved and defined, are undoubtedly hers. Smooth, ivory skin, unblemished, speckled only with the slight blush of youth that settles on the apples of her cheeks.

She bites back tears, breathing deeply.

The face in the mirror is hers once again. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW THROUGHOUT

_ Delia knocks gently, three times in a certain rhythm that tells Patsy exactly who’s on the other side. Patsy summons her in, smiling at the sight of her as she stands at the mirror, applying a fresh coat of eyeliner. She finishes, turning to Delia, taking her hand in her own. It’s smaller, softer, linking with Patsy’s in a way that alludes they were designed to be intertwined.  _

_ “Are you sure about this?” asks Delia, softly. Patsy nods, uncertainty present although unspoken. They break apart once more, heading out into the corridor. _

Delia neatly folds the teatowel, hanging it back over the hook where it lives.

“Can I come in yet?” she asks, leaning slightly against the living room door. Patsy replies from the other side, granting her entrance. In the centre of the floor, stood atop one of their ornate side tables, sits a well-loved Dansette. Delia smiles lightly at the sight of it, taking Patsy’s outstretched hands.

“Does it even still work?” Patsy nods, smiling like an excited child at Christmas. She lets go of Delia only for a second, placing a record atop and setting it spinning.

_ The air of Gateways is hot, thick with secrecy, with relief, and with freedom. Delia boldly takes Patsy’s hand, leading her towards the floor, the planks of which are scarcely visible for women. They link as dulcet tones flood over them, eyes meeting as they find themselves lost, the only two people on Earth within the moment in which they stand.  _

**_“Never thought that you would be_ **

**_standing here so close to me”_ **

_ Delia smirks, feeling Patsy’s hand at her waist, urging her closer as they sway in perfect harmony. Time slows, almost at a complete standstill, the pair focussed only on each other. _

“The first song we danced to,” Delia says suddenly. Patsy feels her heart swell, achingly aware of her lover's lapses of memory. 

“That’s right,” she replies, beaming across at the brunette with a lopsided grin. A youthful twinkle enters Delia’s eyes as she rises from her seat, taking Patsy’s slightly larger hand in her own. Patsy lets herself be led, blue eyes clashing with blue. 

**“Since I can't remember when**

**It's been a long, long time”**

Patsy urges Delia close to her chest, a gentle hand in the small of her back. She wraps secure arms around the brunette’s frame, holding her tightly as they move. Planting a soft kiss to the top of Delia’s head, Patsy smiles, tears forming in sparkling eyes. 

_ The pair giggle playfully as they enter Delia’s room, violently aware of the nuns congregating for Compline downstairs. Once the door clicks shut. Patsy crosses the room, Delia’s hand still linked in hers, letting her weight fall into the bed. Delia climbs on top of her, straddling her hips, trailing soft kisses along Patsy's carved jaw.  _

_ "In a convent, of all places," Patsy says breathily, with a smirk. Delia stifles a giggle, biting her lip as she reaches upwards, taking the cross that hangs above the bed, throwing it into the bedside drawer. Patsy whines slightly at the loss of contact, Delia silencing her with more hungry kisses.  _

The two women stand locked together in their embrace long after the record comes to an end, the slight scratchy emptiness filling the room instead of music. Patsy plants a kiss at the top of Delia’s head, holding her tighter in her arms still. 

“I love you,” says the redhead. Delia takes a breath in, Patsy’s perfume sweet in her nose.

“You don’t normally say that,” she says, quietly, “but I love you too, my sweetheart,”

“These circumstances are anything but normal, though, aren’t they?” replies Patsy, biting back tears that suddenly form in big blue eyes. Delia isn’t so lucky, suddenly letting go of everything that is built up inside her. Still pressed closely to Patsy’s chest, she sobs, deep, wracking sobs that shake her entire tiny frame. Patsy runs a gentle hand up and down her back, letting her cry as long as she needs. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG TW THIS CHAPTER  
> nothing graphic but there is an implied suicide so if you feel that may trigger you please DO NOT read :)

_ Patsy takes a breath in, a slightly musty aroma filling the house which has clearly stood unloved for some time. She smiles as she watches Delia at the window, looking out to the garden. The brunette turns, eyes wide and full of light, beckoning Patsy over. Patsy approaches, standing behind Delia, arms wrapped around her waist. _

_ “Look at all this space,” she says, still struck, “we could get a dog, Pats!”  _

_ Patsy breathes out a laugh, her heart swelling at Delia’s joy. _

_ “And those trees at the bottom,” she pauses, thinking at a mile a minute, “we could put a hammock between them!”  _

Patsy is at the back door, coffee in one hand, freshly lit cigarette in the other, looking out deep in thought. She hears Delia enter the kitchen, shuffling sleepily. 

“Morning, Deels,” she begins, the woman looking at her as she settles at the table. As Patsy crosses the kitchen, she lays a gentle hand on Delia’s shoulder, getting a fresh cup of coffee from the machine. As she heads back, the cupboard above the sink catches her eye, looming. She hands the mug to the brunette, taking her seat opposite. Delia’s eyes are tired and heavy as she reaches across for Patsy’s hand.

_ Delia blinks awake, sunlight filtering through the closed blinds. Her hand rests on Patsy’s chest and she draws herself in closer, shivering slightly in the morning chill. Patsy stirs, looking down at the brunette snuggled into her side. _

_ “Morning, my love,” says the redhead, linking her hand with Delia’s fingers intertwining perfectly. Delia leans up, planting a soft kiss to Patsy’s lips. _

_ “I still can’t believe we’re finally here,” she says, nestling back down into Patsy’s side.  _

Patsy kneels at the back of the garden, snipping at tomato plants, picking fresh red fruits from the stems. Delia approaches from behind, making Patsy jump slightly. 

“Have you ticked everything off of the list?” she asks, her voice a little stern.

“No,” replies Patsy, “this needed doing.” Delia tuts, her arms folded.

“Well you need to make sure it’s sorted, Pats,” she says. Patsy inhales, straightening up from the tomato plants ahead. 

“Will you just let me get around to it?” she replies, not turning to face Delia. 

“It all needs doing.” 

“I don’t need babysitting, Delia,” she says, “it’s pointless either way. I’m not going anywhere, it’s not like we’re going on bloody holiday!” Delia swallows a lump in her throat.

“You’ll be alright, won’t you, Pats?” she asks, her tone softening. Patsy stands at this, scoffing.

“No. I won’t,” she says, “I won’t be alright, I won’t be myself.” Delia means to reply, cut off by Patsy’s continued rambling.

“I won’t make extra dinner even when you say you’re not hungry, I won’t get the slightly more expensive tea because it’s the only one you’ll drink, I won’t sit and watch the children opposite play on their front lawn, hell, I won’t even head up to the paper shop of a morning. I won’t do anything, Delia. Because you’re leaving. You’ll be gone, and I won’t be.” 

_ Patsy enters back through the front door, squeezing her newly cut house keys in her pale palm. She holds a flat brown papered parcel to her side, beaming from ear to ear. _

_ “There you are! I was thinking whether we needed the search dogs sending out,” says Delia, approaching from the kitchen, leaning up to plant a kiss on Patsy’s pink, wind bitten cheek.  _

_ “Got you a little something,” says the redhead, holding out the parcel, “house warming gift.”  _

_ Delia takes it softly, pulling it from the bag it’s in.  _

_ “Oh, Pats,” she says, “the first song we ever danced to together,” Delia’s eyes fixate onto the vinyl, tears welling slightly. She looks back up to Patsy, the redhead’s eyes filling with tears herself.  _

Patsy’s hand trembles as she takes the water out to Delia, a lump in her throat she can’t swallow. The brunette sits on the grass, her frame clearly exhausted. Sappho lays curled against her side, and Patsy wonders if she senses the atmosphere.

“Wait,” Patsy says, quietly, “can we listen? One last time?” 

Delia nods, slowly, avoiding the pain that stings behind her eyes. Patsy heads inside, taking the old Dansette in her arms.

_ “Patsy, come in and dry these dishes!” Delia shouts playfully as soap suds cover her hands.  _

_ “I’m busy!” she shouts back, earning a joking sigh from Delia. The brunette dries her hands, heading through to the garden.  _

_ Her newly purchased record sits spinning on the Dansette, as Patsy approaches her, stretching out an arm. _

_ “A dance, madam?” she says, beaming again. _

_ “You really are a sort of angel,” replies Delia, taking Patsy’s hand in her own. She lets herself be spun, both women giggling, at peace with each others company. _

**“Since I can't remember when**

**It's been a long, long time”**

The last of the stash disappears with the remainder of the glass of water as Delia lets it sit on the lawn. She takes a deep breath, the dwindling summer air filling her lungs. She settles on the lawn, Patsy falling back with her. Instinctually, Patsy takes Delia’s hand in her own, squeezing it as tightly as she can without causing pain.

“You’re not scared, are you?” she asks, nervous.

“You’re with me, cariad,” Delia replies, her eyes heavier each second “of course I’m not.”

**“You'll never know how many dreams**

**I dreamed about you”**

_ “You really do have two left feet!” says Patsy, catching her breath between laughter as she lies in a collapsed heap with Delia on the lawn.  _

_ “I’m a farm girl at heart, Pats,” she giggles, “you don’t catch many sheep doing a foxtrot.”  _

_ The couple settle for a moment, listening to their still racing hearts, joined in a melody with the late afternoon bird song. Patsy’s hand finds Delia’s, linking with it perfectly. _

_ “Do you know something, cariad?” Delia replies, her other hand coming to lay over Patsy’s heart. _

_ “I think I’m finally not scared anymore.”  _


End file.
